by Ami McKay
Adelaide took inventory of Eleanor’s facial expression, her body language, her posture: worried, fidgety, tightly wound. She decided to change the subject. “Did any customers come in today?”
Pointing to a stack of the notices Georgina had printed, Eleanor replied, “I kept the shop open for awhile, but then I went out to hand those around.”
There was no escaping it. Not even for a minute.
Just then the bell on the door rang and Judith Dashley came bursting in, clutching the afternoon paper. “Tell me it’s not her,” she said, trembling as she spread a page of wrinkled newsprint on the table in front of them.
Special to The Evening Star. Police were alerted to a murder scene in the early hours of Monday morning when the body of a young woman was discovered in an alleyway near Madison Square Park. Her identity is unknown. The Head Coroner of the City Morgue estimates the deceased is approximately twenty years of age. Her hair is light auburn. Her eyes, blue. Cause of death: knife wound to the throat. Anyone with information concerning the victim or the crime is asked to contact Police Headquarters immediately. The body and the woman’s personal effects will remain on display at the morgue until Wednesday.
Eleanor reached for Judith’s hand. “It’s not her, I promise.”
“But how can you be sure?”
Adelaide made room for Judith to sit next to her. “I went to the morgue today. It’s not her.”
Judith gasped, eyes teary. “How horrible!”
Eleanor went to fetch more tea.
Judith attempted to calm herself. “I came by earlier to see how I might help, but I missed you both. Alden says I shouldn’t be a pest, but I can’t help it. And when I saw the notice on the door, I saw red. I went straight away to Mr. Newland’s office to argue on your behalf.”
Nearly dropping the fresh pot of tea, Eleanor exclaimed, “Oh Judith, you shouldn’t have.”
Judith sighed. “I had to try. Sadly, he wouldn’t hear me out. He said ‘business is business’ and showed me to the door. What a scoundrel Mr. Newland is! How dare he toss you out on the street!”
Adelaide poured for Judith. “Thank you for trying. Clearly Mr. Newland didn’t know who he was dealing with.”
After adding a dollop of honey, Judith picked up her spoon and gave it a vigorous stir. “You’re not to worry. I’ll take you in myself. You can move into the rooms next to mine. I don’t care what Marietta Stevens thinks.”
“Why would it bother her?” Adelaide asked.
Judith bit her lip. “She’s worried about Beatrice, of course, as we all are…in fact, she’s got the hotel detective on the case and her entire staff on their toes. She’s even mentioned hiring a Pinkerton…”
“But…” Adelaide prompted.
Keeping her eyes on her teacup, Judith said, “Just don’t expect her to openly show her support.”
Eleanor shrugged.
Adelaide shook her head. “If she’s upset about her daughter’s precious gown, then she can go to hell.”
“No, it’s not that.” Picking up one of the missing person’s notices, she pointed at the text. “It’s this.”
LAST SEEN AT THE FIFTH AVENUE HOTEL.
“Beatrice is missing, and that’s what she’s most concerned with?” Adelaide sounded more resigned than angry. “Nothing like a scandal to show who your true friends are.”
Judith gave Adelaide’s hand a pat. Taking a sip of her tea, she turned to Eleanor, hoping that they could all think of something else for at least one moment. “I must tell you of the dream I had last night. Maybe you can make something of it.”
“Of course,” Eleanor said.
“It’s the main reason I tried to find you this morning,” Judith said. “Beatrice was in it, her face as plain as day.”
Adelaide leaned forward.
“We were sitting at a table…you two, Beatrice and me. It wasn’t here at the shop, though—it was in a place I’ve never been. The room was rustic—pot boiling over a fire, a broom leaning against the mantel, a long sturdy table set in the centre of the floor—the kind of place you imagine when you read a tale about a country cottage where fairies dwell. There were flower garlands woven through the rafters. We were laughing, and drinking tea.”
“It sounds lovely,” Eleanor said, thinking it sounded an awful lot like her childhood home. Wondering if it was a sign somehow sent by her mother, she asked, “What kind of flowers?”
“Forget-me-nots,” Judith replied. “I remember because it’s not something you’d ever see here in the city.”
Adelaide asked, “What kind of tea?”
Sniffling the air as if it held the memory of her dream, Judith said, “Rosehip. Yes, I’m almost certain it was rosehip.”
“Was that the whole dream?”
“Yes,” Judith replied. “What do you think it means?”
Tears in her eyes, Eleanor said, “It means we shouldn’t stop searching.”
Judith nodded. “That’s what I thought. What more can I do? I want to help. I’ve a NWSA meeting tomorrow. We can distribute some of those notices, if you can spare them.”
Handing part of the stack to Judith, Adelaide said, “Yes, that would be good.”
Eleanor moved behind the counter where she scooped several spoonfuls of tea into a jar. Tightening the lid, she gave the jar to Judith. “Tonight after dark, make a cup of this tea, then tuck yourself into bed and try to dream. If you see Beatrice again, come tell me. Who knows where it might lead.”
Judith kissed both witches on their cheeks and scurried out the door.
As they watched her move off down the sidewalk, Adelaide thought of the vision she’d had at the morgue that morning. The picture of Beatrice she’d been shown wasn’t nearly so lovely as the one Judith had seen. She’d thought of telling Eleanor but couldn’t bring herself to do it. Turning to her friend she asked, “Do you think there might be something to Judith’s dream?”
“I hope so,” Eleanor said, thinking, Hope is all we’ve got.
The Witch of Blackwell’s Island.
RAIN OR SHINE, snow or swelter, spring, summer, fall and winter, the women of Blackwell’s Lunatic Asylum were led outside for a daily walk, or as the inmates called it, being put “on the rope.” One by one the women were fitted with wide leather belts, then tethered by shackle, lock and chain to a thick, greasy line—two by two along the length of it, twenty-two women in all. A pair of nurses kept watch over them, one regularly shouting, “Hands to yourself!” the other crossly commanding, “Keep off the grass!” Nervously, the patients snaked their way along the gravel path. Some dragged their feet, others took to kicking stones. One tiny, meek woman, grateful to feel the warmth of the sun, turned her face to the sky as she shuffled along.
These were the first faces Dr. Brody encountered as he approached the asylum after his ferry ride across the East River from Manhattan. Surveying them, he thought, Who knew that Hell was so close by? He was glad he hadn’t told Adelaide of his plans. She’d witnessed enough horror for one day.
He figured his chances of finding Beatrice here were slim, but he’d figured he should try. One of his acquaintances from medical school, Dr. Leonard Pitkin, had recently accepted a position at the place, so he’d sent a telegram announcing his intention to visit. He hoped Pitkin might allow him to search the recent asylum records for Beatrice’s name. And while he was at it, he’d ask after Bart Andersen’s girl, Sophie.
The main building was much larger than he’d imagined. The stone edifice was grand and gleaming, consisting of two long wings that stretched out in the shape of an L, providing two sides of the large courtyard. An octagonal tower rose from the centre, the ornate dome of its rotunda three storeys high, as if to house a band of distraught princesses being kept against their will. The rest of the yard was bounded by a thick wooden fence so tall one could only make out the tops of the masts and sails of the ships in the nearby harbour. Stepping through the main entrance, he was met with one of the great architectural wonders of New York, a grand in
terior staircase that spiralled to the roof of the rotunda like the twisted tail of a mythical serpent. Sunlight streamed from the dome above. To those visitors who went no further, there was nothing but reassurance to be found in both the grand space and the motto that graced the wide stone arch above the main door: WHILE I LIVE I HOPE. If the place was anything like the Salpêtrière, Brody thought, the corridors beyond were filled with Gothic nightmares and dark horrors. Making his way to the reception kiosk, he rang a bell to get the attention of the nurse on duty. “Excuse me,” he said to the matronly woman who sat behind the desk, “I’m here to see Dr. Pitkin.”
The round-faced nurse pushed back from her desk, causing the casters on her chair to squawk in protest. “Do you have an appointment?” she asked, her voice flat.
“No,” Brody replied, “but I believe he’s expecting me.”
“Your name?”
“Dr. Quinn Brody.”
The nurse sighed and rolled her eyes, then rose from her chair. “I’ll see if he’s available.”
—
Dr. Pitkin seemed glad to see him. “Brody,” he said with a kind smile, extending his hand before pulling it back with some embarrassment. “What brings you out to the island?” He was cheerful and well-pressed and Quinn wondered how long both would last.
“I’m here to inquire about a young woman who’s gone missing,” he said. “She’s been gone since Saturday with no word to family or friends. I don’t imagine she’s here, but one never knows. She could’ve suffered a bump on the head or a terrible shock that might’ve rendered her senseless or dumb. Some well-meaning police officer could’ve brought her here, not knowing what else to do. I’m sure you’ve heard of such cases?”
Dr. Pitkin nodded. “Sadly, it’s not uncommon for troubled girls to get brought out here, by police or even neighbours who make their own diagnoses of hysteria, brain fever or mania. Sometimes I think the coppers would rather leave them with me than deal with them on the streets.”
“I can assure you this girl is of sound mind,” Dr. Brody interjected, “but if something knocked her for a loop…”
Dr. Pitkin smiled and raised a finger. “Say nothing more. Would you like to check the list of recent arrivals to see if she’s on it?”
“If it’s not any trouble,” Dr. Brody said with a nod.
Dr. Pitkin looked to the nurse behind the reception desk.
“Happy to,” she cheerfully replied, her attitude completely changed in Dr. Pitkin’s presence. Clearly, she fancied him. Opening a large ledger, she asked, “What’s her name?”
“Beatrice Dunn. She’s been missing since Saturday night.”
Licking her thumb, the nurse turned the pages of the register until she found the proper date. Running her finger down the page, she checked each entry, line by line. After several minutes, she finally looked up at Brody and said, “I don’t see her name listed.”
“Thank you for checking,” Dr. Brody said.
Dr. Pitkin leaned across the desk and touched the nurse’s hand. “Thank you, Nurse Brewster.”
As the two men made to walk away, she called after them. “Wait. I see here that we had two unidentified girls come in on Saturday night. One couldn’t speak, the other said she was Marie Antoinette.”
Checking his watch, Dr. Pitkin turned to Dr. Brody and said, “They should be in the courtyard right about now with the rest of the inmates. Shall we go see if one of them might be her?”
In his walk from the ferry, Dr. Brody hadn’t thought that any of the women tethered to the rope had resembled Beatrice, but it was worth taking a second look. “Yes,” he said. “Please.”
The doctors caught up with the women as the nurses were escorting them back into the building. Moving down the line, Dr. Brody looked each one of them in the eyes. They greeted him with scowls, laughter, smiles, winks and blank stares. One woman growled, then licked her lips.
An aged woman in the middle of the bunch flapped her arms and repeatedly moaned, “Oh dear…oh no…I’m going to soil myself!”
“Keep your pie and shit holes shut,” the woman next to her groused.
Reaching the end of the line, Dr. Brody said to Pitkin, “She’s not here.”
“Sorry I couldn’t be more help,” the doctor said. “I’ll look out for her.”
Dr. Brody was about to take his leave, when he remembered Bart Andersen’s desperate plea. “If I can trouble you for one more moment, Doctor, there’s a patient I’d like to inquire about on behalf of a friend. He visits her quite regularly and seems to feel there might be grounds for her release.”
“What’s her name?” Dr. Pitkin asked.
“Sophie Miles,” Brody answered.
“I know the case well.”
“Would I be able to look at her file?”
“I’ll get it for you.”
—
Dr. Pitkin settled him in his office, and before long returned with a large brown envelope. Handing it over, he sat in the chair behind his desk and said, “Terrible crime she committed. But since she was completely out of her head, the court saw fit to send her here instead of the Tombs. I’ve seen some improvement in her since I’ve arrived and there are days when she seems quite recovered, but I’m not sure she’ll ever be fit to leave.”
Dr. Brody took the records from the envelope and scanned the page that detailed her admission to the asylum.
SOPHIE MILES. Aged 28. Found guilty of throwing vitriol in a woman’s face resulting in grievous physical harm. The victim suffered the loss of her right eye and extensive facial scarring. The patient mentioned specific delusions and an outright belief in witchcraft. Her answers were presented in a manner that showed mental instability, violent excitability and a strong disrespect for authority. There is a deep concern for the safety of all those who might come into contact with her. All measures should be taken to subdue the patient at the first sign of agitation.
“She’s not so unstable these days,” Dr. Pitkin remarked. “She spends most of her time on the third floor, in the small parlour just off the fresh air pavilion. She has a fondness for sewing rag dolls. Would you like to meet her?”
Dr. Brody was shocked and unnerved by what he’d read. “I’m grateful, but not today. I should be getting back to the city.”
—
Sophie Miles was, indeed, seated in a rocking chair in the corner of the parlour, sewing basket at her side. She was giving her attention to a small rag doll in her lap, the one she’d made in the likeness of Bartholomew Andersen, right down to his plaid suit, jaunty hat and peg leg. Holding the doll by its tiny hands she kissed its face, made it dance. “Why is it taking so long?” she asked. “Why haven’t you gotten me out of here yet?”
Not an hour before, she could’ve sworn she’d received a sign of her impending release when she’d performed the little daily ritual she used to detect her future. Cupping her thimble to her ear she’d listened for the prophetic voice that lived inside it. Most days it spoke of simple things she could do to get ahead—“steal that fork,” “trip that inmate,” “pretend to like Dr. Pitkin”—but today she’d distinctly heard a man’s voice within, speaking her name as his footsteps drew near.
The other women in the room were engaged in embroidery, cross-stitch, watercolours. One of them left her work to come close to Sophie and whisper, “Witch.” Then another woman did the same, and another, and another. Slyly avoiding the eyes and ears of the room’s attendant, they came at her, chanting under their breath, “Witch, witch, she’s a witch…” not so regularly that they’d get caught, but often enough to drive her mad.
Sophie did her best to ignore their taunts. Putting her thimble to her ear again, she listened closely, but sadly the footsteps had vanished. The usual voice that spoke to her sighed and said, “He’s gone away and it’s all because of that evil bitch.” Seeing the soothsayer’s face in her mind’s eye, Sophie muttered under her breath, “I’ll not let her win.” She tied a small noose out of red embroidery floss loosely ar
ound the poppet’s neck. “Someday soon, love,” she whispered to the doll. “Or else.”
In the hours after the evil influence had fled, the girl came to her senses and to God.
I prayed heartily through these precarious moments and observed her with great care.
Weak and trembling she suffered from the vapours, distressed by a final troubling thought from her oppressor: “You shan’t be the last.”
Still, I did rejoice that she had been saved! She no longer wished to engage in forbidden curiosities. Milk touched by her hands was no longer sour on my lips.
—from An Attempt to Cure Witchcraft: The Story of Mercy Wylde
The Third Night.
REVEREND TOWNSEND STOOD over his desk, puffing his pipe and inspecting a lacquered tray he’d filled with bread, oysters, apples, grapes and a pitcher of milk. After spending a good hour or two praying with Beatrice, he’d felt that all evil had fled the haunted chamber at last. Like Mercy Wylde had done, she’d shown all the signs of a damsel newly freed from her oppressor, from her weakened voice to her trembling limbs. When she’d begged for nourishment, he’d decided the girl’s fast could end. What better way to show confidence in his faith and in the Lord?
He’d gone shopping for her meal himself. Walking home with his groceries, he’d passed by the teashop Sister Piddock had pointed out to him that morning. The store’s sign was still turned to closed and several notices for the missing girl hung in the front window. How he’d rejoiced when he’d seen them! Let the whole city search for her. Let everyone know her name. Let them think she was taken, trapped, even dead. Then, when she came to stand before his congregation to tell her story of being enslaved by that foul witch, how much greater the tale would seem. When she spoke of her deliverance from the evil witch who seduced her heart, how much sweeter God’s glory would be…how many more sinners would come to believe!
Setting his pipe on a saucer he’d tucked alongside a succulent cluster of grapes, he prepared to give thanks. As he knelt, his rod nagged against his leg, and he removed it from its loop and set it aside. Another act of faith. Hands clasped, he sang a psalm, then uttered a prayer.
